Read Online Diary of a Blues Goddess by Erica Orloff - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Erica Orloff
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the dishes. Dominique insisted on wearing her apron. It's permanently in our linen closet, especially for her. It has ruffles, and it's pink. Nan, all five foot two inches of her, stood at the kitchen sink and washed. Red stood next to her, not much taller, and dried. And Dominique, towering at six foot two, put the dishes and glassware away. I was tempted to get my camera and snap a picture.
Everyone started to head home. Tony kissed me goodbye and whispered in my ear, his breath hot and sending a tingle down my spine, "You were fuckin' brilliant, Georgia." I stepped back and looked him in the eye. Coming from Tony, that was a high compliment.
Mike, who'd brought a bottle of Wild Turkey and drank most of it, stumbled out the door. Annie and Gary waved and headed out on their date. Red and Nan went up to her sitting room to play gin rummy. Maggie lingered, and she, Jack and I opened another bottle of champagne. I knew I'd pay for it with a hangover the next day, but I was hoping to get the two of them together. About halfway through the bottle, Jack yawned.
"I'm going up to bed."
Maggie looked at me in "do-something" panic.
"Can you walk Maggie home?" I hurriedly asked him. She lived about eight blocks away, renting a one-bedroom in an old house that had been divided up into apartments, but we never let her walk it alone at night. Usually she just crashed in an upstairs bedroom, but this seemed like a good ploy to get them alone.
He shrugged. "Sure." He helped her up from her chair, and she kissed me good-night.
"Have fun," I whispered. We'd tried every ruse we could think of in the last couple of years to throw those two together, but you never know.
I went upstairs and washed up in my bathroom, put on an old T-shirt and looked around my room. It used to be my great-aunt Irene's room when she visited. She was Nan's sister, a diva, and insisted on the best room in the house, with a view of the street below, and a fireplace. My room is spacious, unlike some of the other bedrooms, and we think it was probably the master bedroom when the house was first built. Dominique had moved to New York City for a little while, fine-tuning her act. After she moved back here a few years ago, she said my room was the size of her entire apartment there.
The room, filled with antiques and pictures of my mother, father, Nan and my ancestors on the fireplace mantel, made me feel connected to the past. I walked over to my father's record collection. I never called it "my" collection, maybe because that would mean I was sure he wasn't ever coming back to claim it. I pulled out an old LP and put it on the turntable of my stereo. I listened to a song called "Glad To Be Unhappy." Only the blues and jazz have song titles like that.
I sauntered or half danced over to the wall where I have family pictures, old black and whites, in frames. I stared at the picture of my father that had caught Tony's eye. My family was a mixture of black and white, some Spanish and Native American on my father's side, down through the years. We were a melting pot all on our own, and I was the result of all those lineages mixing together. My room, the house, was a place where it was safe to grieve, to feel joy, to be with the ghosts of the past and the extended family of the present. I longed for Casanova Jones as the song stirred emotions in my drunken heart. I finished playing the record and then turned off the stereo. The house was silent, but I almost always feel as if the house itself breathes, alive.
Quickly, I fell asleep… or passed out. That was a matter of definition. But I was awakened at three-thirty in the morning by the loudest slam I'd ever heard. So, apparently, were Nan, Dominique and Jack. We all converged in the upstairs hallway, groggy, clutching robes (Dominique and Nan) and pulling on T-shirts and sweatpants (Jack and I), but very clear that we'd all heard something.
Dominique grabbed my hand and whispered, "Remember when I mocked
Everyone started to head home. Tony kissed me goodbye and whispered in my ear, his breath hot and sending a tingle down my spine, "You were fuckin' brilliant, Georgia." I stepped back and looked him in the eye. Coming from Tony, that was a high compliment.
Mike, who'd brought a bottle of Wild Turkey and drank most of it, stumbled out the door. Annie and Gary waved and headed out on their date. Red and Nan went up to her sitting room to play gin rummy. Maggie lingered, and she, Jack and I opened another bottle of champagne. I knew I'd pay for it with a hangover the next day, but I was hoping to get the two of them together. About halfway through the bottle, Jack yawned.
"I'm going up to bed."
Maggie looked at me in "do-something" panic.
"Can you walk Maggie home?" I hurriedly asked him. She lived about eight blocks away, renting a one-bedroom in an old house that had been divided up into apartments, but we never let her walk it alone at night. Usually she just crashed in an upstairs bedroom, but this seemed like a good ploy to get them alone.
He shrugged. "Sure." He helped her up from her chair, and she kissed me good-night.
"Have fun," I whispered. We'd tried every ruse we could think of in the last couple of years to throw those two together, but you never know.
I went upstairs and washed up in my bathroom, put on an old T-shirt and looked around my room. It used to be my great-aunt Irene's room when she visited. She was Nan's sister, a diva, and insisted on the best room in the house, with a view of the street below, and a fireplace. My room is spacious, unlike some of the other bedrooms, and we think it was probably the master bedroom when the house was first built. Dominique had moved to New York City for a little while, fine-tuning her act. After she moved back here a few years ago, she said my room was the size of her entire apartment there.
The room, filled with antiques and pictures of my mother, father, Nan and my ancestors on the fireplace mantel, made me feel connected to the past. I walked over to my father's record collection. I never called it "my" collection, maybe because that would mean I was sure he wasn't ever coming back to claim it. I pulled out an old LP and put it on the turntable of my stereo. I listened to a song called "Glad To Be Unhappy." Only the blues and jazz have song titles like that.
I sauntered or half danced over to the wall where I have family pictures, old black and whites, in frames. I stared at the picture of my father that had caught Tony's eye. My family was a mixture of black and white, some Spanish and Native American on my father's side, down through the years. We were a melting pot all on our own, and I was the result of all those lineages mixing together. My room, the house, was a place where it was safe to grieve, to feel joy, to be with the ghosts of the past and the extended family of the present. I longed for Casanova Jones as the song stirred emotions in my drunken heart. I finished playing the record and then turned off the stereo. The house was silent, but I almost always feel as if the house itself breathes, alive.
Quickly, I fell asleep… or passed out. That was a matter of definition. But I was awakened at three-thirty in the morning by the loudest slam I'd ever heard. So, apparently, were Nan, Dominique and Jack. We all converged in the upstairs hallway, groggy, clutching robes (Dominique and Nan) and pulling on T-shirts and sweatpants (Jack and I), but very clear that we'd all heard something.
Dominique grabbed my hand and whispered, "Remember when I mocked
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